Incompatible
by Demyrie
Summary: TFA. "They were, after all, machines. A certain amount of compatibility was required to function. Anything else? Was just a train wreck." JazzxProwl, but not in the good way. Character-Study-ish.


A/N: Well, I told myself that I'd give the lauded JazzxProwl a try, and this is what comes of it X.X I need a sunnier outlook on life. **I'm not hatin', kids**: to each their own and this is just my cockeyed-utterly-flawed opinion. I can appreciate PxJ in GI because of the different age and dynamic (mainly in Prowl: G1-strict-mature versus TFA-OMG-SO-MOODY), but this is just the way I see these two in Animated.

HDGWKGKLFGF I LOVE JAZZ LIKE WOAH. So slaggin' sweet. And I write Prowl so much darker and self-defeating…inger… than I should :( Muu.

Just a little… scene. Ehh.

* * *

Incompatible

* * *

"Prowler!"

Magnus said it was best that they not _drive_ in the warehouse during their limited and-getting-longer stay, but Jazz still burst into the cream and tan room with all the chrome-laced velocity of his alt-mode, topping it off with a theatrical screech and some eager ventilation. Y'know, just to get his target hopping.

"Wanna hit the road? They've just torn up the concrete on the east side of the turnpike, thought you and me could raise some dust. Y'know, take a lap or three!"

Unspoken was the possible fun to be had after the (literally speaking) dirty romp with those deviant places of sudsy exhibitionism, _car washes_. Jazz was still fascinated by them, and couldn't begin to describe how titillated and hilariously uncomfortable he felt watching organics get their automobile friends, insentient or not, absolutely shining and dripping and sexy with all manner of pine- and citrus-based cleaning products—but he figured he'd get closer to putting it into words if he paid the scandalous oddities a few more visits. Moreso, as he knew Prowl was very picky about his hygiene and the route back included two or three or four of the fetishy facilities… an enjoyable, optic-candied afternoon would surely ensue.

Prowl, formerly tucked amongst the branches of his precious tree, slipped down and hit the bamboo-matted floor with a hollow (and impressively light) thud. He did not spring up and leap for the door. His visor did not flash. He pressed one servo to his temple.

"Jazz…"

"C'mon, baby, y'already spend too much time stuffed in that organic thing!" Jazz insisted, then waved his servos. "I mean, don't get me wrong, meditation's important for advancement, but y'know you're kickin' right along on that with me. Heh. Special trainin' and all."

Sunny as Jazz's grin was, Prowl did not respond to the quick, teasing jab to his left flank. If the lesser ninja was reminded of the time that the Elite Guard had practically tackled a very stubborn Prowl off of his choice branch in order to have his way with the bike on the floor of his room, denting that same flank in the process (and making for a very embarrassing, explanation-dry visit to Ratchet), similarly he made no motion. Jazz made a disappointed noise and waggled his digit.

"See? You're as stiff as a rusted coil. Can't limber up the processor if your joints are locked. Y'need a break, Prowl, n'I shouldn't need to tell ya that."

"I was not meditating. Merely thinking," Prowl said slowly, sharp visor passing over Jazz's own for a titillating blue klik. Primus, but he liked that kid's style. His angles, his colors. Jazz smiled guilelessly, just looking at his pretty _Spark-interest_.

Still caught on that silly term? Pit, they'd come far enough. Lover, that's what it was. Been going on for five Earth 'months', it had—long enough to see the dihydrogen-monoxide-based 'snow' melt and the green of the organic new stellar-cycle spread over Detroit and give his normally introverted Prowler a joy so effusive it could hardly be contained in that trim black chassis. It was weird to get so stoked up about something so inanimate and stationary and _leafy_, yeah, but he'd take a smiling, somewhat-playful Prowl any solar-cycle and never question the cause.

"About what?" Jazz asked, leaning against Prowl's tree. Prowl didn't answer for a moment. When he spoke, his vocals were unusually heavy.

"Thinking on the fact that I believe I have… satisfied my curiosity regarding intimate relationships."

If Jazz's traffic-light-dotted, quick-moving, _happy_ world had dropped from under him, it would have been premature. No cataclysm had ever come contained in so small and stiff a sentence; so small and dark a mech. Never so sudden. As it was, all he could do was stare, optics wide behind his slick visor.

Thinking up a response was a whole other breed of emotional aneurysm.

"Curiosity? So…"

Jazz tried not to croak as he chuckled. The sound came out like Styrofoam, squeaking with strained belief and five plastic months.

What had happened to the car wash?

"What am I, some kind'a science project?"

"Unfortunately, very nearly," Prowl murmured. Uncomfortable. He lowered his vocals further and glanced away. "A social project, if you will."

Prowl got like this sometimes. Existential wouldn't be the word; nihilist was a better fit. It was like the world was his own little game of battle-ship, to order around in close-packed, functionally detached little experiments. A coordinate for everything and everything to its coordinate, drained of all emotion or personal stakes. Never mind that life didn't work that way—it was a liquid thing, moving and gaining momentum. Never mind that they couldn't control a quarter of the stuff that happened, and all that was left to do was _adapt_ in a beautiful swift tuck-twist and make the best of whatever went on.

Jazz adapted. It was what he did. His style reflected it, and he had learned to live his life around the concept. It served him when he managed to shake his head in the face of Prowl's luke-warm cruelty.

Of course it hurt being called a project, but with a moody bike like Prowl, encountering a few hard bumps on the way was more than expected. The battle was well-worth it. The wiry white mech recovered admirably, waving his handsomely blocky servo.

"Hey, I can… ah, live with bein' an experiment. Means I'm bein' conducted for the greater good, hear?"

Jazz tried to chuckle but failed. Prowl was still standing stiffly by his tree; the other mech moved forward to grip Prowl's shoulder armor, squeezing slightly and leaning down by his gold-lined audio receptor.

"You gotta stay with me, Prowler," he murmured, allowing a little of the too-warm push of anxiety into his elastic vocals as he rattled the other slightly, so slightly. Promising _playful_ if he would simply step away from his tree. "Here I'd almost got you all warmed up and real, and you duck out on me? Can't do that mid-game, baby."

Prowl wouldn't look at him. Prowl also did that a lot. Jazz's grip shifted to the smaller mech's sharp jawline, tilting so their mouths were lined up. Jazz smiled slightly.

"I know how y'are, but don't get all cranked up for nothin'. I'm here for ya."

He hadn't even begun to close the distance when Prowl pulled away.

"It isn't—I apologize. I cannot."

"Can't what?" Jazz asked, baffled.

"_Continue_," Prowl grit out, shaking his head viciously. "We are… too different."

"What d'you mean? We get on great!" Jazz exclaimed, caught in that painful moment of stating the obvious while under the sneaking _pressing scalding_ impression that it wasn't obvious at all when Prowl was looking at him like that, all dull lines and deep, world-crushing frown—immovable when the one thing Jazz needed most was to keep moving--"I mean… y'have fun, don't you?"

"Momentary distractions are to be indulged in for the sake of pleasure, not used to supplement the core of an equal relationship," Prowl non-answered him flatly, and the distance in his stance and vocals killed the white mech with stunning speed. "I say again, Jazz, we are too different to merit the success of this... endeavor. Thank you for having faith in me, but I am merely bringing closure to suspicions I had from the first. Logic says we cannot continue."

"Logic? Logic's got no place in--we can work through it! That's the _point_!" Jazz insisted, grasping at anything he could put into words. Anything to make Prowl back down from the highest cliff yet. "Two different kinds'a 'bots—we give each other strength. That's the point to diversity, Prowl. What's more, I'm willin' to carry this! You got me, babe, and I say I've got just what you need and until you can get back on your pedes, I'll--"

"No."

And that was it. Prowl wasn't taking it.

It was over.

Jazz's white, streamlined world did a sloppy backflip and reclaimed that premature crash. In reality, he'd been crashing for cycles. They had talked, argued, crashed. Hit, slam, screech. The scene reversed and fast-forwarded in nauseating, death-rattle jerks and Prowl's words hit again, harder than before. The self-contained sound and smell of mental carnage and peeling panels of metal and gluts of smoke (_five months and the idea of walking out of that room _alone) stilled the older mech. When Prowl—distant, compact little Prowl—spoke again, he could only stare.

"This is not through any failing of yours, Jazz. This flaw is mine and mine alone. It is obvious that you are… ultimately compatible with any mindset—save mine. Perhaps I am unsuited for relationships."

Pause. Sad, even calculation. Smoothing up a negotiation with clammy, impersonal precision. No hard feelings.

No feelings at all, in fact.

"I do not know."

They stood silently for a long, long moment. Then Prowl looked to Jazz, visor dim.

"I trust this will not… strain our professional interactions."

Before he said that, Jazz was ready to fight for him.

He was ready to rewind the crash (watch all the carnage again in reverse, even more painful in a way for the pendulous weighty chance it might punch through again and _mow him down_) and make stupid claims, to break through Prowls barriers for them both—then he realized, in the end, with that poisonously courteous, politically correct statement, that Prowl's barriers would probably break _him_. Jazz shut down on the inside, and all the painstakingly-recorded memories he had from just five more-than-slightly-blissful months, all the hopes…

The time when he got Prowl to smile--really, truly smile--then laugh in a way that sounded so odd with his cool vocals. The time when he got Prowl to kiss him under the bridge right before that orange-pink explosion called sunset, where he could have sworn the kid did it almost sort-of all by himself, closure and all. Then… he got it.

Always getting. Always coaxing. It never… _got_ any easier. Prowl never bent or loosened up for anything less than a servo on his neck. He could take orders, sure, but he never _took_ to anything that Jazz showed him, be it a new place or a new way to smile.

"Y'know? Maybe you're right. You're pretty stiff."

Jazz looked down, vocals tight with the clench of _official_ suffering. He chuckled (hollow, incredulous) and continued, "Pit, if this is your prepackaged version of a break-up, maybe we are better off apart. Maybe it's time… for me t'get outta here. Switch out with Sentinel."

Until that moment, he had never realized who he was dealing with. Prowl was an entirely different creature: he lay at the exact opposite end of the spectrum of life. Rhythm, flow. Function. Credo. Maybe this is what he got for dicking with a 'bot so young: Magnus hadn't supported it. Magnus had told him to back off. Then again, maybe Prowl needed time to settle into his own and break from 'logic', but Jazz had the sneaking, sinking suspicion that that sterile streak would continue for his entire function.

It was just… who he was. Down to his wiring, down to his Spark.

Jazz wanted love, openness. He craved it like some craved overcharge, alongside a zinging lust of stretched boundaries and willing exposure. Adventure. Prowl needed control, retention, inflexible mastery. Jazz made him pleasantly uncomfortable at best, if occasionally thrilled—but it was the bursting, anxious thrill one gained from breaking the rules. The dark ninjabot _was_ the rules, he was logic: any deviation from that icy but sure backbone dragged him into uncertainty and discomfort and blind conformity. Functioning in that floorless zone, he was clearly lost. Clearly not himself, even if it did make him more likely to… kiss or smile.

It was as if the whole five months had been one prolonged misunderstanding, all hopeful moments drowned under the inkblot of the overall message of incompatibility. Moreso, it was as if Prowl was betraying some basic part of his programming by being with him—by dallying and stretching himself and surrendering to his superior's coaxing and goodwill _and authority_ that led him off in a conflicting direction--and Jazz couldn't bear to be the exception. The off-chance. Or rather, to think Prowl felt something for him when he saw those rare and singular moments. Those… glitches.

And here Jazz thought he'd been bringing the good out in the kid. Instead, he was just twisting the other into hard-won knots. They were, after all, machines: a certain amount of compatibility was required to function.

Anything else was just a train-wreck.

"Maybe I was stupid for thinkin' one of us would come around."

Flinching, Prowl turned to face him, honestly stung. He had emotions, after all.

Somewhere.

"I… apologize, I am not accustomed to—"

"No need, Prowl. No need," Jazz murmured, waving his hand slowly, visor dimmed. On with the bundle of rules and ordinances and politically-correct deadpan, on with the glossy jargon…

"Delete it."


End file.
